There is No Ignorance, There is Knowledge
by The Wall Had It Coming
Summary: Fusion. Sherlock, a Tatooine farmboy, receives a message for Commander Watson from Prince Mycroft.  Upon asking John, he is told the truth about his neighbor and himself.  They inlist the help of Capt Lestrade in their efforts to evade Darth Moran.
1. Chapter 1

**I know I already have a WIP, and CfC will take precedence, but this plot bunny would not leave me alone. Mostly due to the efforts (nagging) and encouragement of two of my twitter peeps: OperaGoose and doctorcoffeegirl. As such, updates will be sporadic at best.**

**There is flagrant abuse of the Star Wars Universe to suit my own nefarious purposes. No**_**Sherlock s**_**poilers, but let's go ahead and warn for all six movies of**_**Star Wars**_**and bits of the EU, just in case. Also, I feel that despite my best efforts, OOCness will be inevitable.**

**Title comes from the Jedi Code. Most of this fic assumes knowledge of the Star Wars verse, with heavy ****Wookiepedia ****consultation on my part.**

**Also, not beta'd nor britpicked, although I'm not sure the latter is relevant in this fic...**

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><p>Tatooine was, in a word, dull. Sherlock loathed every one of the innumerable grains of sand that covered the planet's surface and the twin suns that took every opportunity to burn and blister his pale skin. Day in and day out, everything was exactly the same. The only feasible way off this miserable ball of dust was to enroll in the Imperial Naval Academy, yet even that opportunity was denied him.<p>

"Absolutely not!" Uncle Anderson shouted when Sherlock brought up the possibility of enrolling once again. "I need you here, to help with the harvest."

"Those two droids you purchased today should be far more productive than I ever was. Even if they are stolen," Sherlock tacked on as an afterthought.

"Stolen?" Aunt Sally choked out.

"Yes, stolen. Judging by the carbon scoring and partial message I uncovered in the R2 unit, I would say they are the property of a diplomat currently assisting the resistance. Quite probably the one apprehended in the confrontation with the Star Destroyer that occurred over the planet mid morning yesterday. The protocol droid was not nearly as useful because of the memory wipe some twenty years ago, but the point remains."

Aunt Sally gaped. "You can't possibly..."

"The data only goes back twenty-one years, yet judging by the wear and tear on the chassis and circuits, the droid itself is a good thirteen years older. I made more difficult intuitive leaps at the age of five."

His Aunt and Uncle shot each other a look filled with fear, one Sherlock had grown used to over the years. They didn't understand him, and his deductions had always unnerved them. He just learned not to let it bother him.

"Don't Sherlock. We've talked about this countless times. You _don't do that_," Uncle Anderson said angrily.

"And why not?"

"It isn't _right_, Sherlock!" Aunt Sally shouted.

She didn't say the words, but Sherlock heard them anyway. _You're not right. You've never been right. What were we thinking when we took you in?_Her posture, eyes, and micro-expressions practically bellowed them at him. He tried not to let it bother him, but it did. Sherlock pushed his chair away from the table, making for the garage, the one place he would be left alone.

"Where are you going?" Uncle Anderson shouted after him.

"It looks like I'm going nowhere," Sherlock spat over his shoulder.

It was the truth – Sherlock was never anything but brutally honest with his Aunt and Uncle. It did _look_like he was going nowhere. In reality, however, Sherlock was taking the two droids out in the speeder and discovering exactly what it was the R2 droid's message contained.

"Commander Watson," had been the name the well dressed, slightly plump man from the hologram had entreated for help. The only Watson Sherlock knew of was the bachelor who lived alone on the other side of the Dune Sea – far too young to have been a commander during the Clone Wars. Perhaps a relative of his was the man in question. Regardless, John was the best chance Sherlock had at solving this mystery.

And if Sherlock had happened to time his trip so that night would fall a half-hour after his arrival, that was merely coincidence. Travel after dark on Tatooine was suicide; John Watson would have to invite him to stay the night.

Sherlock couldn't explain his fascination with the man. Ever since he had first met John at the age of seven, something about the man had struck a cord within him. Sherlock wasn't sure what it was. His deep blue eyes, his bright grin, the sound of his laugh, the expression on his face when he called Sherlock "brilliant," instead of reacting with fear and distrust as all the others had – any could easily have been the culprit.

Sherlock never had the chance to interact with the man for more than scant seconds at a time, and their last encounter had been almost two years ago, but each stayed firmly in his memory. He _needed_to interact with John, needed to know more about the man then the few bits he'd been able to piece together.

By the time Sherlock's speeder pulled up in front of John's hut, Tatoo II is level with the horizon, and Tatoo I had already set. Before he saw the driver, the older man had been tense, his dominant left hand reaching across his body to retrieve whatever weapon he had concealed at his right hip. Sherlock could tell the moment he was close enough to be recognizable by the way John relaxed, a surprised smile breaking over his face.

"Sherlock?" he called out as the teenager jumped out of the speeder, landing effortlessly on the balls of his feet. "What are you doing here?"

"I have a droid here," he said, gesturing back at the R2 Unit still in the speeder, "who is carrying a message for a Commander Watson."

Watson gave a small start that most wouldn't have observed, and his face flickered in recognition before quickly returning to his version neutral. Interesting.

"A relative of yours?" Sherlock offered, studying the man before him intently.

Only that wasn't quite right, Sherlock realized as he considered further. The expression on John's face hadn't been one of simple recognition; it was the habitual start someone gave when hearing their own name called. It was John's frankly astounding self-control that had caused him to make the mistake initially - very few people were in tune enough with their emotions and reactions to curtail them so quickly and with such ease.

But John couldn't have been more than eighteen at the end of the Clone Wars, and he hadn't been off Tatooine in all the twelve years Sherlock had known of him. His mind raced through his memories, trying to accumulate additional data that would help him to arrive at the proper conclusion.

The last time Sherlock had seen John, nearly a year ago, he had been on his way to Toche Station to purchase some power converters for his uncle and perhaps haggle his way into some spare parts all his own. Sherlock had felt a sort of tugging at the corner of his mind, and had been struck by the urge to turn around, just in time to observe Watson's hand darting out at an impossible rate, catching a valuable vase that had only just begun to fall of a table of wares. Sherlock had always been struck by the fact that a man of his build could move with more fluid and grace than a native of Kamino. He always reached up and habitually brushed his hair behind his left ear, despite the fact that he always kept it cut short. Sherlock's eyes narrowed in on John's hands, before him now, and took note of the calluses. The pattern was similar to that developed on the hands of mercenaries who habitually gripped a blaster, but on both hands.

Fantastic reflexes, practiced daily with a fairly light two-handed weapon, used to having hair longer on the left side of his face, awarded the rank of Commander in the Clone Wars while still a teenager...

Oh. _Oh_. Answer found, Sherlock had a pressing question.

"How," he asked, still filled with wonder at the revelation, "did you escape the purges?"

John didn't look afraid or surprised, merely smiled at Sherlock ruefully. "I was wondering when you would work it out. A bit worried about where too, what with the way you go about announcing things at the top of your lungs the moment you figure them out."

Sherlock tried not to let his dismay show on his face. To announce that John had once been a Jedi Padawan would be a death sentence. He would never do that to the man before him.

"Bring those two droids inside, and I'll tell you about it. We should be getting to shelter anyway – the sun is about to set. You'll have to stay the night."

Sherlock's response was a wide, far from innocent grin.

John settled in one of the two chairs in his sparse dwellings, gesturing Sherlock towards the only other seat.

"Sherlock, what do you know about your family?"

"Other than that Sally and Anderson are not my blood relatives? Very little. The material of the clothes I was brought to the Donovan's in implies that my parents were from a core world. That my birth parents would choose to leave me on Tatooine, of all places, suggests that they wanted to conceal my existence."

John let out a quiet chuckle. "Of course you would have already worked most of it out. Your parents were both from Coruscant. Your mother was a very well known and respected Senator and one of the loudest protestors against James Moriarty."

"The Emperor?"

"Yes. She saw the way the tide was shifting, and knew that Senator Moriarty would seize power as soon as the opportunity presented itself. Despite the numerous attempts on her life, it wasn't until the doctor's ran the standard blood tests that she and your father decided to send you away for your own protection."

The protest that none of this had anything to do with John died on Sherlock's tongue at that, his curiosity getting the better of him. "What could a blood test possibly show that would lead them to that conclusion?"

"Midi-chlorian count. The highest ever seen, in fact," John said, looking extremely impressed.

"And what is it that Midi-chlorians indicate?" Sherlock asked, disliking being left in the dark.

John said nothing, staring not at Sherlock, but seemingly _through_ him. Sherlock was struck with that same tugging sensation he had felt at the marketplace, every instinct in his body telling him to _duck now_.

He did, and saw a data-pad of some sort sail over his head and into John's open hand. It wouldn't have done an extreme amount of damage, but it certainly would have been painful.

"Force sensitivity," John said simply.

Oh. Well…oh.

"Your father, though not a Jedi, taught at the temple because of his unparalleled skill in his field. Logic, insight, deduction – everything you excel at. He knew that the Sith were reemerging, and that they were somehow involved in the Galactic conflict. He and your mother predicted that there would one day be a time when being a force-sensitive would be dangerous." John chuckled darkly. "They were much more accurate than the Council had a hope of being."

"I was close to your father. I was at his house, with your mother, when order 66 was given. Order 66 was the beginning of the Jedi Purge," he elaborated at Sherlock's confused look. "Clones turned on their commanders, and a Sith apprentice stormed the temple and murdered all the younglings. If I hadn't been on leave, hadn't been with your parents, I would have been slaughtered along with the rest." John was light years away, his eyes filled with a deep pain Sherlock hoped he never understood.

"I am very adept at cloaking my force signature – it's the one area in which my skill was and is unparalleled. It's how I've managed to survive for so long. Your father and mother asked me to protect you, so I left. I think, in reality, they were protecting me – storm troopers stormed their house and arrested them as traitors five minutes after I had left."

Another deep breath, followed by a long, controlled exhale. "Before coming here, I went looking for my master," John's fist clenched, and his teeth were gritted. "The Sith apprentice, Darth Moran, had killed the man I once respected and loved."

Sherlock would be the first to confess he was no expert in emotions, but something was not quite right. John's expression was carefully controlled, his breathing was even – there were none of the indicators Sherlock usually relied on. Yet he could tell John felt betrayed, hurt, and angry about the fate of his master.

The emotions didn't match the story John had told – he was hiding something.

Before Sherlock had the chance to inquire further, John shook his head, seemingly bringing himself out of his dark memories.

"Then I came here. I approached your Aunt and Uncle, told them what I knew about them, and asked for their permission to train you in the force. You probably don't remember – you were seven at the time. They turned me away after a great deal of shouting. I was only fourteen, still inexperienced myself, but I thought if I could teach you the little that I knew…I thought I could help keep you safe, like your parents had done for me."

Sherlock felt a painful twinge in his stomach. John's respect and attitude towards Sherlock had nothing to do with who he was, but what he was: his parent's son, a fellow force user. It hurt him in ways he didn't want to dwell to closely on.

John shot him a look, eyes narrowed in speculation. "Alright?" he asked, studying Sherlock closely.

Sherlock fought to rein his emotions in, somehow knowing if he didn't, John would sense the thoughts behind the reaction. "Fine."

John didn't look convinced, but Sherlock could tell he would let it go for now. "Let's have a look at this message then."


	2. Chapter 2

**AN: Many, many thanks to the fantastic ****OperaGoose****, my beta for this fic. She has been a saint. The comma!war was long and brutal, but she eventually emerged victorious.**

**In regards to the Star Wars EU, I am running blind. Like that idiot who stumbles around in Dark Cave and gets so badly lost they have to restart. Please forgive me. Also, forgive the Pokemon reference.**

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><p>The miniature blue projection on John's table straightened, his expression serious as he stared into the recording device. He was tall and slightly plump, well-dressed with an aristocratic nose. Every inch of him oozed sophistication, but he exhibited none of the entitled frivolity Sherlock typically saw with those in positions of wealth and power. Instead, he exhibited the severity and solemnity of someone devoted to an important cause.<p>

"Commander Watson," he began, "my guardian, Bail Organa, served with you in the clone wars. He spoke highly of you and your devotion to freedom and justice. We must ask for your service once again in the effort to preserve these noble causes. Contained within the databanks of this droid is information vital to the rebellion. I humbly request that you see it safely to my guardian on Alderaan, who will know how to retrieve the data. My mission to bring you to Alderaan has failed – Darth Moran is pursuing our ship and it is only a matter of time until we are apprehended. Help us, Master Watson. This is our most desperate hour and you are our last hope." The man glanced over his shoulder before crouching down to end the message.

Sherlock turned to John. The older man's face was serious, his gaze light-years away. "I have to go to Aalderan," he spoke eventually, his tone filled with a finality and resignation, making it clear that there were no other choices in his mind.

Sherlock tried to ignore the bitterness welling within him: he had discovered the connection he thought he had with John was nothing more than a product of survivor's guilt and now he was going to lose him permanently. He would be stranded on this sithspit planet without _anyone_who tolerated him, let alone understood him.

"It'll be dangerous," John continued, "I won't lie to you about that. But the Rebellion needs users of the Force to help in the fight against the Empire." John took a deep breath. "I don't know much, Sherlock. Not nearly enough. I was still years away from being knighted. But what I _do_ know, I _will_teach you."

Sherlock didn't trust what his observations were telling him. He didn't trust this newfound sense either – it could all too easily be wishful thinking.

"You…you want me to come with you and join the rebellion. You're offering me the chance to come with you and learn the ways of the Force."

"If you'd like," John replied, seemingly as stoic as ever.

Sherlock's face broke into a wide grin. "I'd like that very much."

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><p><em>There is no death, there is the Force<em>, Sherlock's numb brain repeated on auto-pilot as he stared at the burnt-out wreckage of what had once been his home – at the charred skeletons of his Aunt and Uncle. When Sherlock and John had discovered that the Jawas who had sold his uncle the droids had been massacred, Sherlock had known. But he had to_see_.

He had never liked his Aunt and Uncle, but they were his family. The only family he had ever known. The Empire had_murdered_them.

Sherlock was angry. He could _feel_ how angry he was – it seemed to echo in the sand and the stones, vibrating in_everything_.

The Force, Sherlock realized. He was emotional, and he was instinctually using the Force to express those emotions. He immediately began the calming mantra John had taught him the previous night – Sherlock had never let his emotions control him before, and he wasn't going to start now. Especially not with the omnipresent threat of the Dark Side.

Sherlock immersed himself deeply in his feelings, reaching out for the Force as John had shown him. It was everywhere, in everything: pulsing, flowing. Sherlock opened himself to the Force, allowed it to flow through him, feeling himself calm as the immense nature of it became more and more apparent. Sherlock didn't think, he didn't feel, he simply _was_.

He sensed John long before the man spoke. John's presence in the Force was…unique. If he focused, _truly_focused, there was a small discrepancy between his signature and those of the other sentient beings Sherlock had encountered. Everyone left…ripples, radiating outwards, but only to a certain distance before they dissipated. John's ripples went no further than any other's. They radiated outwards and then just…stopped. No fading, no dissipation, just nothing. Sherlock didn't understand why, and made a mental note to inquire later.

John was behind him now, resting a reassuring hand on his shoulder. Sherlock slowly brought his focus back inwards, exhaling heavily before opening his eyes. He squinted against the sudden invasion of the harsh sunlight.

"That was well done," John said, standing closer than Sherlock was used to. His hand was warm and solid against Sherlock's shoulder, heat radiating outwards through Sherlock's body from the point of contact. "Most padawans take_years_to learn that sort of control, not hours."

Sherlock understood at once: John, feeling his initial outburst, had come to guide Sherlock through the emotional maelstrom and deal with any potential fallout. John had been able to sense his anger. _John could sense what Sherlock was feeling_.

Sherlock quickly reigned himself in, finding all the feelings that coursed through him in relation to John Watson and burying them deep within himself. Deep where they could not be found or destroy this tenuous relationship between Master and Padawan, more than he had ever hoped for. He would take whatever John would give and force himself to be content with it. It was hopeless anyway – the Jedi order had been notorious for their vows of chastity, both physical and emotional. That much had survived even in the Empire's propaganda.

Sherlock stood, bringing himself up to his full height and brushing sand off his trousers, battling with grief from more than one source. "We should go – there is nothing left for me here."

John gave his shoulder a brief squeeze before removing his hand altogether and walking away towards the speeder.

Sherlock stared at him, not daring to follow until he had filed the longing to have that hand on him again away with all the other feelings he couldn't have John sensing.

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><p>Mos Eisley was indeed, as John had put it, a wretched hive of scum and villainy. Sitting at the cantina, sipping on a dreadful concoction Sherlock didn't really care to think about, he spotted twenty-three career criminals, seven of which had death-sentences on at least three systems. Seeing two of the later category eye him with some interest, Sherlock thought it might be in his best interests to see exactly what it was John was up to.<p>

He tossed his last handful of credits onto the counter and took his drink. Sliding into the seat besides his mentor, he was careful to refrain from any accidental physical contact.

"Sherlock," John said turning with a small smile on his face. "This is Dimmock," he introduced, gesturing to the Wookie seated beside him. "He's co-pilot on a vessel that I think may suit our needs."

Captain Geoff Lestrade was an intriguing individual. He was clearly ex-navy – judging by his utility belt, blaster, and the remarkable enjoyment he seemed to derive from sprawling across the corner booth where the two pairs were ensconced. However, the Navy was very particular about who they recruited from backwater planets. For an orphan from...Corellia, if he wasn't mistaken, to be sent to the Navy instead of trained as a Storm Trooper spoke of some talent as a pilot.

His associations with the Wookie Dimmock were even more telling. Given his wary stance and the careful look he was giving every occupant of the bar, Dimmock was not only highly protective of Captain Lestrade, but felt that there was a high probability that danger was present. Danger that specifically pertained to Lestrade. Given his profession as a smuggler, it was likely that some issue regarding cargo had resulted in a bounty on his head.

The second-class Corellian Bloodstripe adorning the man's trousers, the fact that Dimmock was a Wookie, and the fiercely protective stance he took beside the captain all suggested that a life debt was involved.

So, respect for alien life – enough to earn himself a life-debt. Dishonorable discharge or left the Imperial service of his own volition. No remaining loyalty to the Empire then. The bounty on his head meant he would be amiable to almost anything for the right price. He was what they needed.

That much Sherlock understood from his typical methods of inquiry. What he could _not_ explain was his conviction that not only was Captain Lestrade suited for the job, but that he was _perfect_ for it. In trught, Sherlock was convinced he was the_only_man for the job.

Once the haggling was settled, Sherlock and John departed. They collected the droids from their hiding spot, and Sherlock lost what little remaining faith he had in Storm Trooper intelligence when he heard that they had evaded capture by _locking the door_.

Sherlock was struck with an unexpected wave of melancholy as he sold his landspeeder – he was never coming back here.

"Alright?" John asked as Sherlock returned, passing over the depressingly small number of credits.

"Me? Fine."

"Sherlock…"

A pause. No point in lying – John could sense what he was feeling. "I want to leave. I've always wanted to leave. But this…this is all I know."

John stared deep into his eyes, and Sherlock once again felt warmed to his very core. John smiled at him and that warmth increased several degrees. He put those feelings with all the others, hidden away where John couldn't sense them, before walking towards the correct hanger. He was careful to avoid physical contact with his Jedi Master – Sherlock was certain that would turn the warmth into heat, and he wasn't sure he had enough control yet to keep that concealed.

Sherlock walked into the appropriate hanger and froze. Surely _that_couldn't be the vessel they were expected to use to travel through the vacuum of space from hundreds of millions of miles?

"You must be joking!" he exclaimed incredulously. "This is a dilapidated, out-dated, death-trap!"

Captain Lestrade strode out of the ship and into view, wiping his grease-stained hands on a rag. "The _Falcon_may not look like much, but she's got it where it counts. She and I have been through a lot together – more tight scrapes than I care to count, and a few close calls with Imperial ships. She made the Kessle Run in less then twelve parsecs."

"It's older than I am!" Sherlock argued, looking disdainfully at the thing in question (he was loath to call it a ship).

"True. And where I come from, we respect our elders."

John snorted, placing a hand over his mouth in an attempt to muffle the sounds of his mirth as Sherlock turned to glare at him. He eventually gave it up as a bad job and bent over, clutching at his stomach as peals of laugher echoed off the hanger walls.

Sherlock tried to stay irriated. He truly did. But John's laugh was one of the most wonderful sounds he had ever heard, and he was reacting accordingly. If he didn't leave _now_, the Jedi would surely know…

As odious as he had thought the Millennium Falcon upon first sight, he couldn't help but be thankful for her presence now. She would make a perfect sanctuary from John's scrutiny while he attempted to rein in his affections in once again.

He was sitting on the bunk he had commandeered with a hand over his face, taking deep breaths and most assuredly _not_thinking about what John's laugh would feel like if the man were pressed flush against him. Or how it would sound muffled against his skin. Then, he felt it again: the tugging.

_Something is wrong _he knew swiftly and with complete confidence.

He had made it to the hallway as Lestrade came barreling past, the captain hastily shoving a blaster into his utility belt.

"Hang on to something kid," he shouted as he went by, "things just got _interesting_."

Sherlock grinned and followed Lestrade into the cockpit: the padawan loved it when things got interesting.


	3. Chapter 3

**AN:****I meant to have this up sooner, but was taken down by a fit of Post-fic depression coupled with the nostalgia of my impending graduation and then heard that a dear family friend had died. Thank you for your patience. many thanks to my long-suffering beta **_**OperaGoose**_** who not only whipped this into posting shape, but left innuendo filled comments to cheer me up throughout this embarrassingly short chapter.**

**Still have no idea what I'm doing in regard to the EU. You have been warned. Also, I am making up most of the shit about the force as I go.**

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><p>Prince Mycroft Organa steeled himself as the door opened. He needed to be ready to resist further interrogation efforts. He had known (what he was signing up for, and knew) what the only realistic outcome of capture would be when he had signed up for the rebellion. The only variables in the equation were how his execution would be carried out and how much interrogation he would have to endure before hand.<p>

Instead of the probe he had been expecting, Mycroft was greeted by the white, insect-like masks of two stormtroopers. They parted quickly, flanking either side of the cell's door to reveal the figure looming behind them. Yellow eyes glared down at him from beneath a widow's peak of dark hair.

"Lord Moran," Mycroft remarked calmly in his best politician's voice, "I had not anticipated being graced with your personal attentions for at least three more sessions."

The Sith's lip curled in distaste. Mycroft could _feel _the air shifting and becoming charged. It presented an interesting possibility- Mycroft could provoke the Sith, attempt to insight the man to such anger that he would strangle him. It would certainly be faster than whatever fate the Empire had in mind for him. And it would ensure the Alliance's secrets died with him.

"Bring him," Moran snapped at the troopers before stalking away, his cape flaring dramatically behind him.

Mycroft stood, glaring at the Imperials as they approached: The Prince of Alderaan would go to his death with his back straight and his head held high, not dragged like a coward. When they saw he wasn't going to struggle, the stormtroopers allowed him to follow Darth Moran under his own power.

Mycroft took careful note of the all the pathways they travelled, adding them to the pathetically sparse mental map he had managed to accumulate thus far. It might prove useful should the opportunity to escape present itself – improbable as that was.

When he arrived at their destination, Prince Mycroft faltered. He had seen the plans, had been the one to discover the weakness. He knew exactly what this battle station was capable of. To see his home planet of Alderaan – peaceful, defenseless – consuming the view-port of the aptly named Death Star was enough to make his knees dangerously weak.

Mycroft closed his eyes and mourned. Alderaan and every being present on the planet was doomed. There was no circumventing the situation. Even if he were to provide them with a decoy planet...this was not solely about Mycroft's information. This was about making an example out of his home world, to show what happened to those who harbored enemies of the empire. Enemies like his mother and father.

Mycroft knew they were not his biological parents – he had known that from the age of five. Upon confronting Bail and Breha with the information, they had told him of his biological parent's wishes regarding his upbringing and safety. They had not told him their names, but it had been no difficult leap to discover the politician and the temple instructor. The day the empire rose to power and they were executed publicly, Mycroft cried for the first time since he had been an infant. Now he would be forced to watch as he lost the little family he had left as wellas the only home he had ever known, and bear the knowledge that he bore some of the responsibility.

He opened his eyes, breathing would honourtheir sacrifice by remaining strong and composed. He would do everything in his power to ensure their lives were not lost in vain.

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><p>Sherlock rushed after Captain Lestrade, finding himself in the cockpit moments later. He slid into the seat behind the which thankfully put an ample amount of space between himself and John. Sherlock was fairly sure he had his emotions under control, but he didn't want to put them to the test sooner than was absolutely necessary.<p>

The sight from the Falcon's view-port was a fairly grim one: a star destroyer and three cruisers were waiting in the space above Tatooine.

"I hope, for all our sakes," Sherlock snapped at the human in the pilot's seat, "that this crate is half as good as your boasting. Unless you were _planning_ on enjoying the hospitality of an Imperial Detention center?"

Dimmock barked something at the padawan, and while Sherlock didn't speak Wookie, he was perfectly capable of understanding the gist of what the co-pilot was getting at. He couldn't help but smirk.

"Dimmock, put in the coordinates for Alderaan," Lestrade ordered, ignoring the flashing light on the console that clearly indicated the failure of some system or another.

He pressed a series of controls and a humming noise began to emanate from the ship, the pitch telling Sherlock that the captain had finally activated the shields. The cruisers began firing, streaks of green light shooting past them.

"Alright, Dimmock. Punch it!" Lestrade shouted after executing a fairly complicated manoeuvre that not only avoided the incoming shot from one of the Imperial ships, but also put them precisely on the hyperspace vector needed to travel to Alderaan.

Seconds later, the stars elongated and widened, blurring together until all that was visible was the white of hyperspace. Sherlock let out a small exhale of relief. They'd made it. They'd made it off Tatooine. A wide smile broke across his face. Finally. Finally! He'd escaped from that sithspitof a planet. Not only that, he had become a Jedi padawan and was now on his way to join the rebellion.

"Yes," said John, eyes crinkling as he smiled at Sherlock in return, no doubt sensing the younger man's excitement and perhaps the thoughts behind the emotion. "Now, let's have you start earning that title, shall we?"

Sherlock followed his Jedi master out of the cockpit to the common area of the Falcon. John gestured for Sherlock to take a seat while he made his way to one of the crates he had brought with him from his homestead. A few seconds of rummaging later, he emerged with hands full.

He placed three objects down on the table before Sherlock. A helmet with a blast shield that was covered in such a way so that the wearer could see nothing of his surroundings,a basic droid equipped with blasters and thrusters, and a long cylinder of silver metal with a black grip covered in switches.

"This," John said, taking the lightsaber gingerly from the table and cradling it in both hands, "was my master's lightsaber. It won't feel quite right, but I think it will be a better fit for you than my blade."

Sherlock took the proffered lightsaber from John's hands with great care. "How should I hold it?" he asked, staring at the elegant yet unassuming weapon in his hands.

John pulled out his own saber, positioning his hands carefully and slowly. Sherlock followed his example, adjusting to the weight in his hands. John, first on his own lightsaber and then Sherlock's, pointed out all the various gauges and switches. He made the younger man repeat their functions four times before he deemed Sherlock ready to activate the blade.

"Alright. Keep your hands clear of the activation area. That thing was built for the express purpose of cutting through flesh and bone without even pausing. It can cut through almost anything if you give it enough time. I once saw Master Sebastian cut his way through three layers of blast doors with it. Your hand would be child's play."

Sherlock fought not to roll his eyes. He wasn't a complete moron, he had figured as much already. He gripped the blade carefully, as John had taught him, before pressing the activation switch.

The green blade hummed to life, terminating some two and a half feet from the end of the hilt. There was a very slight change in the weight of the saber, but it merely caused the blade to finally feel relatively balanced. Sherlock swung the blade through the air experimentally a few times, noting the change in the pitch of the humming and the way the blade seemed to cut through the air with _relatively no _resistance.

John pulled the training remote off the table before activating it in front of Sherlock. "We'll start out with this while you get the hang of the lightsaber and then move on to practicing with the helmet," John told him, taking a seat where he could observe Sherlock as he trained.

Fifteen minutes later, Sherlock felt he had mastered the skill, becoming cocky and complacent. The droid showed him how poor a decision that had been with a mild bolt to his hip just as Lestrade walked into the room. The Captain chuckled, as did John. Judging by the level of amusement his Jedi master displayed, Sherlock knew who he had to thank for the stinging sensation.

"Alright," John told him, deactivating the remote with a wave of his hand, "that's enough for now."

"Nine Hells," Lestrade said, freezing where he stood. _He's a Jedi. The curly-haired one must be too. Kreth. No wonder those Imperials were so determined._

John smiled at Lestrade. "No Jedi here," he told him, "just a Commander who isn't as young as he used to be and a farmboy with no other place to go."

"You can read my mind?" the Captain asked, arching an eyebrow as he eased himself onto one of the seats in the room.

"He's not _reading_," Sherlock told him, shutting off the lightsaber. "You're broadcasting."

Lestrade's presence in the force rippled outwards, carrying his thoughts and feelings with them. John's just…stopped, carrying only the faintest whispers and barest impressions. But not in an obvious way. One would only notice if they were focusing all their attention solely on John Watson, as Sherlock so often did.

"Oh. Oh!" the padawan cried suddenly. "That's what it is! Your presence…you're cloaking yourself and your thoughts?"

John beamed. "God, you're brilliant." It took all of Sherlock's still limited control of his feelings to keep the rush of pure pleasure at John's compliment within acceptable emotional ranges. "Exactly. Everyone has a presence within the Force…a signature, if you will. Someone who can use the Force has…more of a presence. It extends farther, carries greater weight to it. I've had to conceal mine to ensure the Emperor and Darth Moran don't discover me. I've been shielding you as well, but I've had to do less and less work of late. You really are a quick study."

Before Sherlock had a chance to comment, his head felt as if it was being ripped apart from the inside out. Shouting. So much shouting. People crying out in fear, bright and vibrant before being extinguished in flashes of pain and agony.

When Sherlock was able to think again, when he was no longer feeling the deaths of millions dying at once, he realized that all the meagre defences he had managed to construct over the past few days had been completely obliterated. Every thought he'd ever had about John Watson, every reaction and emotion he'd ever had was now on display for the Jedi's observation. And John was observing, Sherlock could tell.

Because John's shields had been weakened. And in that weakness, Sherlock could see something that shifted his entire perspective.

John Watson loved him back.


	4. Chapter 4

**An: I apologize for the long delay b/w chapters. RL became hectic. Many thanks, as allways, to OperaGoose, my talented beta, and to all of you who reviewed.**

* * *

><p>Sherlock rocked back, snapshots of memory flashing through his mind.<p>

_John stumbles off of the transport that had brought him to Tatooine. Betrayal and anger burn through his veins, searing him to the core. How? Why? _

_The Force, so empty moments before, sings with more power than John had ever felt before, even when surrounded by fellow Jedi in the temple. He reaches for it, even as it reaches for him, instinctually soothing him_

And

_Sally Donovan stares at the fourteen-year-old with horror, shielding the boy she thinks of as her own behind her. "No. NO! Leave! Leave now!"_

_John can hear everything she won't say through his own crushing disappointment. 'Dangerous. Already wrong enough. Have to keep him safe. Have to keep him normal. Normal is safe'_

And

_John jerks awake with a start. Sherlock. He reaches out, past the shields he has erected around himself and through those he has in place around the younger man. The force-sensitive is dreaming. A vision of the future. One that is hideous and violent and filled with blood. John takes it from him with care, soothing the mind he takes it from as best he can without intruding_

And

_He's gotten a glimpse, a small glimpse at what it is like inside Sherlock's head. Every day. All the time. And it's wonderful. Beautiful . John really can't quite believe that anyone is capable of thinking like that. He wishes he could see it, experience it all that time_

And

_John is fairly certain he's in love. With Sherlock's mind, with his sarcastic wit. The glimpses that John gets of his thoughts, of who he is. He convinces himself it's platonic, brotherly – the kind of love that the Jedi encouraged. And then he sees Sherlock in the marketplace, and he feels he's been struck over the head. Desire so strong he's surprised the younger man (and he is a man. There's no point in denying that) can't feel it across the street, along with an attraction so powerful it feels as if it is physically pulling him towards Sherlock_

And overshadowing every memory was the all-too familiar grief of someone longing for someone he knew he could never have. The same, burning, building, aching Sherlock had been experiencing for the past four years, intensified one-hundredfold the past few days.

For the first time in years, Sherlock hoped.

All connection with John's thoughts and feelings was suddenly severed. His sapphire eyes met Sherlock's, filled with a yearning that Sherlock could no longer feel, but could now see plain as day. He couldn't fathom how he had missed it for so long.

"John…" Sherlock began, hand reaching towards the man without his conscious permission.

Blue eyes bored into Sherlock's filled with conflict. "No," he said at last with no great force. "No," he echoed again, more wistfully before fleeing in the direction of his quarters on the ship.

Sherlock jumped to his feet to follow John only to find his way blocked by Captain Lestrade.

"Move," he begged him, startled to find that his voice was infused with the Force.

It had no effect on Lestrade, however. "Listen," he said, placing a reassuring and restraining hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "I haven't an idea in any of the nine hells what just happened, but that was a man who needed space to sort himself out. " Lestrade started into Sherlock's eyes intently. "Give him that space."

Sherlock, for once in his life, did as someone tells him, utilizing the "space" to sort through his own thoughts and emotions.

Slumping into a nearby chair, Sherlock wrapped his arms around himself. As he sank into contemplation, he cursed his body for choosing now of all times to assert the fact that deep space was colder than his desert home world.

John loved him. John _loved_ him, not as a brother or a friend. He didn't love his looks, he loved _him_. He found the intricacies of Sherlock's mind fascinating, amazing, beautiful. He loved what had caused Sherlock to feel like a freak and an outcast, but was still a central part of his identity. John knew him and loved him not in spite of, but because of it.

John wanted nothing more than to see exactly how Sherlock's mind worked as often as possible, but he was a man of strong moral fiber. And if he thought something was wrong, he would do _anything_ to keep it from happening. Even if it meant denying himself something he desperately wanted.

Damn the Jedi Code. Damn it to the deepest depths of any hell he could think of. Because what he felt? What John felt? That couldn't be wrong. The Jedi Code was about the Jedi – he and John could change it any way they wanted, now that they were all that was left.

All he had to do was change John's mind, convince him that he wasn't wrong. That they weren't wrong. It would be difficult. John Watson was one of the most stubborn men Sherlock had ever met.

But if Sherlock loved one thing more than he loved when things got interesting, it was a challenge.

"We're coming up on Alderaan," Lestrade said, voice cutting through Sherlock's train of thought. "You might want to come strap yourself in."

Sherlock followed after the older man gratefully. They would be on Alderaan in a matter of minutes and then John would be unable to continue avoiding him. And Sherlock wasn't sure how much more time he could take cooped up on this freezing death trap.

Sherlock belted himself into the jump seat, staring out into the white of hyperspace.

"Are you going to tell me what it was that happened back there?" Lestrade inquired breaking the silence as he flipped a switch.

"A disagreement regarding a few of the key disciplines of our organization," Sherlock remarked with a façade of calm.

The captain gave him a long, searching look before it became a sympathetic grimace. "I heard stories about the Jedi, you know. When I was in the academy. Met some people who had worked with them before the purge. They talked about how unnatural they were. One guy knew some bits of the Code and would quote it – mockingly of course, and only out of the earshot of our superiors. A few phrases stood out to me. Things like 'there is no passion' and 'attachment is forbidden'. "

"Was there a point to this charming anecdote?" Sherlock spat defensively at the captain.

"I'm just saying, don't get your hopes up. The Jedi started training kids who had potential practically at birth. If someone's been told his entire life that something is wrong, is it really so surprising that he's a little apprehensive about giving it a go?"

"Yes, thank you for your input," Sherlock drawled sarcastically. "Now, don't you have a ship to pilot?"

"I hope he makes you cut your hair," Lestrade retorted with a chuckle before adjusting a control that caused the lines of the stars to gradually solidify into points.

The soft hum and smooth ride Sherlock had grown used to over the past several hours disappeared in an instant, the ship rocking under the force of several impacts from large objects. The space debris was everywhere, pelting relentlessly against the ship. Lestrade swore, adjusting the controls frantically.

"Must have landed in the middle of a meteor shower," he worked out between swears and tricky maneuvers. "I don't understand. The coordinates are right, but Alderaan is nowhere to be found."

Sherlock understood. The large debris at Alderaan's coordinates without the planet coupled with the frankly agonizing shock-wave that had torn through the force left only one possible explanation.

"_Force_," Sherlock heard a familiar voice exhale painfully. John's force presence, muted and shielded as it was, echoed that shock and pain.

"What?" Lestrade asked, turning and no doubt taking in the expression on the faces of both his force sensitive passengers. "_What?_" he demanded.

"They destroyed it. They blew up a _planet_," John said slowly, fists clenching tightly. He took a deep breath, and Sherlock could feel his control, which had been fraying, solidifying once again.

"How?" Lestrade asked when he was capable of forming words once again.

"That," Sherlock said pointing at a large object through the viewport he had erroneously assumed was a satellite of Adleraan recently freed from its orbit.

"The moon?"

"Not a moon, a space station. One which already has us in a tractor beam, if I'm not mistaken."

Lestrade's swears made it clear that he wasn't.

Sherlock's suggestion of concealing themselves in the smuggling compartments combined with John's stroke of brilliance regarding luring the stormtroopers into the ship and relieving them of their uniforms allowed them to avoid detection as they ensconced themselves in a nearby control room.

Sherlock reached cautiously outwards with the force to try and get a sense of their surroundings. Immediately his senses detected a thick, dark, cloying presence causing a disruption within the force. It felt overwhelmingly _wrong_. Sherlock shuddered.

"John?" he asked, shaken.

His master's face was more serious than he had ever seen it. "I feel it."

"What…what is it?"

"Lord Moran," he said, gaze fixed on things beyond his eyes. "Stay here. Stay in control and shielded. I'm going to go shut off the controls for the tracker beam."

Sherlock opened his mouth to protest, but John cut him off with a glare. "You aren't ready yet. Now, stay here."

John exited without another word.

It didn't take long at all for the entire situation to become unbearable.

"I" Sherlock said, after what felt like an eternity simply sitting and waiting while John put himself in danger, "am bored."

Lestrade made a noncommental noise in acknowledgement.

Sherlock, unsatisfied with Lestrade's response, turning his attentions on the astromech droid currently fiddling with the consul of the computer terminal, taking in the brief flashes of readouts as the driod sorted through data far faster than Sherlock's visual cortex or the screen could keep pace with.

The robot's code, repeated trills and beeps, coupled with the readout currently on the screen painted an interesting picture. Sherlock went over to the consul, taking in the information with interest. The Prince was here. And scheduled to be executed, if the information could be trusted.

This, Sherlock could handle. This would let him feel useful. And something told him that this man needed saving. And he needed it _now_.

Trying to convince Lestrade would take too long. Sherlock went with the fastest solution. If he left, Lestrade would feel obligated to follow. And Dimmock would feel obligated to follow Lestrade. He would need both of them to execute his plan.

Grabbing a communicator, the helmet, and his blaster, Sherlock walked out the door, tossing a careless "I'm off to spring a generous royal rebel from the detention center. If I'm not back in an hour, I've been captured or killed."

Smirking, Sherlock made his exit, listening to Lestrade swear profusely before following him.

* * *

><p>Mycroft turned as he heard the mechanism on his door starting to turn. Possibilities scrambled through his brain – options and outcomes flitting in and out as he tried to settle on his next course of action. He knew an official order had been signed for his execution, but the odds were relatively low this was his immediate fate. While Prince Mycroft had managed to resist the mind probe, he doubted he would be able to resist Lord Moran invading his mind for anywhere near long enough. Mycroft would sooner die than give him what he wanted. The Prince of Alderaan sat up as the door began to ease open, spine straight and shoulders back, determined to meet his fate with dignity.<p>

But this…was no quite right. All was not as it appeared. The hall smelled of charred flesh and recent blaster fire, and the stormtrooper before him was too tall.

There were several possible explanations, but Mycroft would require more data before he could make a determination regarding the truth of the matter.

"Aren't you a little tall for a stormtrooper?" He drawled, hoping to provoke a response that would give him more information.

"iNine krething hells!/i" the man in the uniform cursed. Loudly and emphatically.

From the expletive, Mycroft learned that the man was young – on the cusp of adulthood. No more than twenty standard years yet no fewer than 16. He was from a rural, outer-rim planet. One controlled by the Hutts, judging by his accent and chosen curse. Mycroft learned all this, yet he could find no motivation for the swear to have been uttered. Mycroft arched one eyebrow in a quest for more information.

The man in the armor pulled off his helmet by way of an explanation.

Mycroft stared at the face before him, searching for words only to discover he had only one. Acting on instinct alone, the prince stood and crossed the room in a few short strides before wrapping his arms around the curly-haired figure before him.

"Brother," he exhaled in wonder. "My brother."

A part of Mycroft's brain assimilated the data now available, matching up timelines and previously known facts to form a picture of the current situation. His parents…their parents had clearly seen the signs of the coming danger in the senate, and had chosen to send their children away for their own protection. They were affluent and well-connected, Mycroft's own adoption spoke to that. In organizing the rebellion, he had seen just how well-connected they had been. So why had his brother been sent so far from civilization?

The majority, however, was basking in this newfound information. He was not alone. He still had kin. And he would do everything in his not insignificant power to ensure he wouldn't' lose the only family he had left.

"Kid! We're about to have company!" a fast approaching rough, masculine voice shouted. "What the hell is taking so long?" The voice asked again, the man it belonged to walking into view.

The expression on his handsome face turned to one of comical surprise when he saw the two men locked in an embrace. Mycroft's brother (_his name. He didn't even know his name_) used the distraction of the new arrival to escape the Prince's grasp.

"Captain Geoff Lestrade, this is Prince Mycroft Organa." There was a lengthy, contemplative pause before he added "My brother. Prince Organa," he continued introducing, "this is Captain Lestrade, formerly of the Imperial Navy, the owner and captain of the ship that brought us here, and a reluctant member of your rescue party."

"Us," not "me" Mycroft noted with some interest. And a rescue party did not typically consist of two only two people. At least one additional individual had traveled with his brother. But who? And what was his relation to Mycroft's brother?

"Why didn't you _tell_ me we were here for your brother?" Captain Lestrade asked, tone exasperated but body betraying the urgency of their situation.

"Simple," Mycroft's brother answered. "I didn't know. Now, I believe you said something about company?" The curly haired man asked, raising his blaster before pushing past the Captain into the hallway.

Captain Lestrade stared at him in openmouthed shock for a long moment before following Mycroft's brother out the door, shouting "Oy, Sherlock! What the in the hells is that supposed to mean?"

Mycroft followed them, filing the name away. _Sherlock,_ he thought. _It suits him._

"Shut up, Lestrade," Sherlock snapped at the captain as Mycroft entered the small, grated hallway. His grey eyes alight with a level of intelligence Mycroft had never seen save in his own reflection. "I'm thinking."

Mycroft took stock of situation in a matter of seconds, observing the oncoming, well-armed stormtroopers pouring through the only obvious exit.

"When you concocted this no doubt very well thought out rescue plan, did you have a plan for getting _out_?" Mycroft enquired, keeping his tone entirely pleasant.

"He's the brains of this operation, sweetheart," the Captain told him, firing a blaster at the approaching storm troopers.

Mycroft's stomach twisted uncomfortably as he realized exactly what they were going to have to do to escape, but he quickly banished the sensation and scoffed at himself. Survival was far more important than sanitation. His brother's brow was still furrowed in thought, and Mycroft realized he would have to initiate the unseemly process himself. He tugged the gun of the captain's hand, as he was the least consistent shot out of those in the immediate vicinity (and how can Sherlock shoot better than someone trained on a blaster when he's never held one before today?) and aimed it at the grating.

Mycroft gestures for his brother to proceed him, his posture and expression making it clear this was the only option. Sherlock's expression made it clear what he thought of his newly discovered brother's protective instincts. The younger man clearly had enough sense to know that this was not the place to assert the independence he had experienced unhindered those twenty or so year prior, but his intelligent, piercing eyes made it clear that an argument was forthcoming. This entire conversation was conveyed in a few looks exchanged over a matter of seconds, Sherlock rolled his eyes before leaping lithely and recklessly headfirst into the opening.

"Into the garbage chute, if you'd be so kind, Captain," Mycroft ordered, firing off a few parting shots before tossing the blaster back to the utterly befuddled grey-haired man and following reluctantly after his brother.

He landed just in time to watch Sherlock, brow furrowed in concentration, hold a hand before the obviously locked door, only to have it spring open moments later without his brother so much as laying a hand on it.

Mycroft stared at him in horror, running on auto pilot as he dodged blaster shots and sprinted through corridors after his sibling and the handsome captain. His eyes were fixed on the weapon clipped to his brothers' belt that bounced against his hip with every step.

A Jedi. He was a Jedi. Beings who were hunted down by the empire with a fanatical zealously, a priority above all others.

He was all Mycroft had left. He _had_ to protect him, keep him safe. Yet Sherlock's very _existence_ put him in danger, only augmented by whatever tasks he performed for the rebellion or for his order.

_I will protect you, _Mycroft swore to himself as he trailed after his brother. _No matter how you feel about it. I will protect you at the cost of my own life. I will keep you safe even if you hate me as a result. You are too important for me to be put off by a trifling matter like you good opinion of me. I will protect you even if the price is your regard. _

_You are all I have._

* * *

><p>Mycroft was broadcasting his thoughts. Thoughts directed <em>at Sherlock.<em> Thoughts filled with protectiveness and love so strong it was nearly painful to be shown. How could a bond so deep have been forged so quickly?

Sherlock was unable to keep himself from reacting. Today had been too much. His entire world had been shaken at it's very foundations by emotional upheaval after emotional upheaval. Sherlock was by no means the reasoning machine many assumed him to be, but his experience with emotions, especially now that they had been augmented by his discovery of the force, was nowhere near enough to handle the strain and turmoil from the past 48 hours.

Mycroft's love was too much. The last straw, as it were. Sherlock's newly constructed shields cracked slightly under the force of the emotional onslaught.

The cracks weren't much, but they were enough. Sherlock could feel the malevolent presence two decks up take immediate notice. The dark presence immediately began throwing itself against Sherlock's shields, pressing against the cracks and trying to tear them open even as Lord Moran rushed towards him.

"_Sith!_" Sherlock swore appropriately.

There were two immediate options – run, as far away and as fast as he could, and pray that they reached the ship before Lord Moran reached them or tore his shields to pieces. The other was to stop where he was, focus all his attention on repairing and reinforcing his shields and pray he had enough time to finish and conceal himself before Moran arrived.

Neither was remotely encouraging, but given the circumstances, Sherlock knew which would be more useful. He ran, trying to hold his shields as best he could as the group fled. It wasn't his location he was worried about, it was everything else Moran could learn from his mind.

They were able to make it to the hangar bay before he found them. Sherlock rounded the final corner, only to slam into Lestrade's back as the man froze staring at the figure before them, his sudden influx of fear palpable in the force.

Lord Moran cut an imposing figure, dressed entirely in black. The few inches he stood taller than Sherlock, coupled with his force presence, made Sherlock feel as if the Sith towered over him. His yellow eyes glowed fiercely under his widow's peak of dark hair. His lips were twisted with a small smirk, equal parts amusement and disgust. The blood red lightsaber held casually in one hand hummed ominously as the dark lord took a few leisurely steps closer.

"Which one of you is the little Padawan I get play with?" Lord Moran asked, deep voice filled with dark pleasure.

Sherlock took a deep, fortifying breath before beginning to step forward, only to find himself stopped momentarily by a hand grasped tightly around his bicep. Sherlock looked over his shoulder and met his brother's eyes.

_Don't_, the prince pleaded silently with both his mind and his expression

_I have to, _Sherlock tried to make clear with his eyes.

There was no choice. He was the only hope they had.

Mycroft kept his gaze fixed on Sherlock's for several long moments before inclining his head in the barest hint of a nod. His fingers loosened, but he didn't release Sherlock entirely. Sherlock shook him off and stepped forward, focusing on the upcoming confrontation instead of dwelling on the overwhelming sense of terror coming from behind him.

Moran's force signature became infused with dark amusement.

"Little Jedi," he cooed mockingly, "come to face the fate of all those before you. You will pay," he said, turning deadly serious. "You will all pay for what you took from me."

Sherlock did not allow himself to become sidetracked by Moran's words. If he survived this, there would be plenty of time to dissect the meaning later.

Instead he walked forward with long, purposeful steps, stopping a yard away from the Sith and assuming a defensive stance (the only stance he knew) and calling his lightsabre to his hand, unwilling to turn his attention away from the sith lord even for a second.

Moran's eyes zeroed in on Sherlock's lightsaber, and his entire force signature shifted. While he had been darkly amused and slightly wrathful moments before, the sith was now murderously irate. The pure, unadulterated rage directed at Sherlock was enough to make the younger man feel ill.

"Where," the sith hissed furiously, "did you get that?"

"From his master," a familiar, warm voice said from a hallway to their right.

John Watson walked forward, his posture and expression perfectly tranquil, the lightsaber casting a green glow over his features looking like an extension of his hand.

"_You_," Moran snarled, his face a study in wrath.

"Me," John said serenely, idly whirling his lightsaber as he stepped between Sherlock and the Sith lord. "It's been twelve years since our last battle, Lord Moran. Twelve years I've spent becoming stronger in the force. I bested you as a teenager. Care to see what will happen now that you're past you're prime and I'm the strongest I've ever been?"

"Beginner's luck," the Sith spat at John, his rage palpable even to the non-force users present.

"Was it?" John asked. "Then why can't you even _find_ my force signature to try and attack me? If I wasn't standing right here, you'd never even notice me, would you? And that just drives you mad." A pause, considering. "Well, madder."

Sherlock stared at John with horror. He was goading an angry Sith, baiting him. Ensuring all his attention was on John so Sherlock and the others could escape.

Sherlock found John through the tentative bond that had begun to form between them. _No. Don't do this. You can't do this._

_I can and I must,_ John replied through their connection, his thoughts tender and bittersweet. _Try and stay safe this time, alright?_

The words John was speaking aloud slowly trickled into Sherlock's awareness despite his growing horror. "Tell you what, I'll try and make it easier for you, since you clearly don't have a chance the way things stand."

And suddenly, there was John.

Bright, beautiful, good John _singing_ through the force, emitting light so strongly that even Moran's force signature seemed joyful.

He was all Sherlock could sense, all Sherlock could see, and he was drawn to his warmth and goodness like a moth to a flame.

Except he couldn't go to him. There were strong hands wrapped around him, dragging him towards the Falcon, up the loading platform, dragging him _away from John_. He fought them, but only half his focus was on his surroundings the rest was with the only person that mattered.

Until suddenly, just as quickly as the light had come on and filled a space in Sherlock he hadn't known was empty, it was gone.

John was gone.

Sherlock collapsed against the strong arms wrapped around his physical body and wept.


End file.
